my mother & I condense
a lifetime together into weekly
hikes — there are never enough
daylight hours we seek out
wild rapeseed moss-soft fennel
prickly radish leaves that unfurl
to fold up gently: we linger
in languid afternoon light,
traipse from patch to patch
squat to forage in a rush all
that we recognize as humble
nourishment. My mother, eyes
wild with huáijiù, plucks
tender shoots in eager handfuls,
states in a matter-of-fact tone:
It is in our DNA this trauma
the need to store up enough food
to stave off winters men —
cannot and will not ever understand
what we carry inside us. In silence
we walk the path, heads held high
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 7:10 PM UTC
The distance grows immeasurably,
& I've grown too accustomed to the flux—
as I flit from one I long for the other
Mother: the first separation as evening comes
refuses 'goodbye' the taste of grief
so heavy on her native tongue
In her garden she pleads for me to stay
hands outstretched for just an hour
to see the rare white blossoms unfurl
My eyes remain fixated on the far gate
she shrinks I leave
my mother nothing in return
When I arrive home the familiar stifling
silence greets me & only then do I recall
like a stone’s impact my mother's puffy eyelids
marking another somber anniversary
celebration, alone by the sole witness
of the night -blooming cereus
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 7:06 PM UTC
I had been immersed
in the deepest parts
of a journey with no end
in sight. I knew all
that He saved me from. Had to
come to the end of myself.
My limited perception, twisted
into the narrative that upheld
this lost one snatched from a fire
that still gnashed its teeth, so eager
to devour me. I rose above the smoke,
eyes closed, clinging to the last thread
of His garment. I came to the place
of true revelation that burrowed
so deeply I wondered how I could have
done without it for so long. I know
what He saved me for now. His voice
no longer muffled by the mockers
who wanted nothing more than to see
my head served upon a china platter.
Let God be true and every man
a liar. It had always been this knowing
that the forces fought so hard to sever
from the tender mosaic of my being.
Let this knowing settle upon the earth
pushing its thick roots into places
that had never been a solace to me.
Do not apologize for occupying this.
Apr 29
Apr 29, 2026 at 7:58 PM UTC
this dawning of a new refrain,
soft cream of magnolia, the quiet
hush of sacred seeking? The breath: wind
that whispers, then fiercely courses
full speed ahead, upon the wooden
bridge so stately and bracing, permeating
all the hidden spaces that had
long been forgotten? The gust that forces
out the dust and the lone spider still
in its final stage of consuming
its paralyzed prey? The poised throat,
eager for nourishment and the living
water that bubbles in ecstasy, plumes
spraying up higher and higher,
the quiet confidence that transforms
the landscape of your own waiting soul?
Feb 26
Feb 26, 2026 at 7:58 PM UTC
I had become acquainted
with unseeing eyes that still saw
too much. The cloister of a cocoon
meant to preserve all that remained
after the fire coursed through, crying.
The heaviness of stories I had clung to
like the hand of a parent who had
already slipped away and failed
to realize the child who saw beyond
the mirage, who hoped against hope
for even an artificial light to provide
warmth, to somehow be unveiled
as the source to begin with. Was I still
wandering into a borrowed tomb,
unable to discern these times, seasons
that ushered in the fragile new growth
when all I'd known was decay? Carry
that weight and leave the shell. Let
the molten fragments be found
by the next unsuspecting stranger
eagerly awaiting new rains. I had been
steeped too long in the deluge of death
only to shrink from the only true light
that could heal those deepest parts
of my being, of those stories I wished
weren't mine to hold. Still, the flicker
illuminated all they had wanted
to keep me from knowing all along.
Jul 21, 2025
Jul 21, 2025 at 2:33 AM UTC
I sank into the familiar couch — tense, prepared
for chastisement. I was met with warmth, a calm
reassurance that the events that had transpired
all served a greater purpose. A necessary unraveling.
Arriving at the end of myself at last. Could I salvage
a sense of normalcy? Did I want to? Things had shattered
beyond repair. What was I meant to hold onto? Discard?
Regeneration seemed an unattainable summit not meant for me.
As if reading my mind, my therapist spoke, his words of truth
stirring my spirit in a way my mind could not fathom.
When you experience that fear, go back to that place of surrender.
No more and no less. In silence, we sat in that dim sanctuary
for some time, the drone of the cars outside a sharp reminder
that I was still alive. I had people on my side who did not turn
their eyes away from my fragmented state of being. I spoke now
of the gradient colors of maples across the street. A brilliant hue.
My tone was flat, but it was still an observation made
with intact faculties.. Yes, that’s it. Keep that awareness. My therapist
nodded his encouragement. This is good. You’re able to focus, to recognize
beauty in the mundane. Keep going. Somehow, this simple statement
imbued me with the resolve to continue. My voice wavered
as I recalled how I saw my entire life flash before my eyes
like a cruel cliché. How I was swept up into some
parallel dimension. One that was so much more real than this
world I’d been immersed in. You need to write it all down. At this point,
you may not be able to differentiate which parts truly happened and which parts
were illusions. So you’ll need to capture it all. His words rang true, and yet —
how could I bring myself to experience this once more,
to solidify what had happened to me and what I was still
moving through? Something in me knew that he was connecting it
all back to something much bigger than either of us. Something
or Someone present through it all. A silent witness who held the only
key that would set me free. The Truth that still waited patiently for me.
Jul 21, 2025
Jul 21, 2025 at 1:37 AM UTC
what I remember: a country road, your wild
will to live far beyond the ordinary, the cold way
you darkened your eyes, cutting as people
often do with whatever they long to do
away with: that last meal with some specter
from your past, the sharp glance burning
one or another 'almost' lover. Now, the only
wild seedlings in my life are in my garden —
they lay dormant, awaiting the moment I sprinkle
a few precious droplets from my favorite teapot,
regret slipping into the cracked earth again.
There is no victor that emerges. All is silent.
Jul 19, 2025
Jul 19, 2025 at 1:32 AM UTC
In the dim half-light turned blue, she gazes
up at the bees who’ve trapped themselves
in her skylight, the slow hum of tired wings
beating against fat, desperate bodies.
A lone fly flits about up there, also, at ease
in its unbelonging. The bees circle
in growing anxiety, then slow to a crawl.
My throat tightens as I see my mother
grab the flyswatter. Don’t, I whisper,
but her tiny frame is already climbing up
on the kitchen table, her focus unwavering.
Oh, I won’t **** them, she grins,
her arm extending the fly swatter high,
a meager offering swathed in good cheer.
I rush over to steady her body to keep her
from tipping over in this precarious pursuit.
She waves away my offer to trade places
with her. You’re very pregnant, she says,
and her tone tells me there is no arguing
with her. My mother murmurs in Mandarin
to the agitated creatures, calling them
beautiful, letting them know she sees them,
sees how they’ve been up there for far too long
swelling with exhaustion and mistrust.
The first bee slowly climbs onto the swatter
as if entranced by her sweet, clear voice.
She hands me the swatter, and I fumble
with the backyard door, nervously
carrying it into her garden. I place the bee atop
one of my mother’s flowerbeds. It clings
to a sunset-orange bud, and I make my way
back inside. In silence, we retrieve, hand off,
and rehome each bee until all eight are
safely in the garden. Not one makes
any move to leave, content to simply rest
a while, to savor the fresh air, to revel
in the sacred space my mother holds
for every being she meets. In the fading light,
I watch her linger in the bare kitchen, a shadow
of a smile gracing her face. If only
they could see her in this light. Would anything
change? Or would she still merely be the next subway
push, another fatal stabbing as she returns home,
one more life snuffed out in a now-empty nail salon?
Jul 15, 2025
Jul 15, 2025 at 3:50 AM UTC
In a few months, I would become a mother
myself. Drove to her home, eager to spend
the day with my own mother. Tried to ignore
the deepening crevices in her face, arthritic
knuckles that still pounded dough to make
dumplings for others. Late afternoon, we perched
upon her kitchen stools, sipped chrysanthemum tea.
Her voice was quiet as she recalled leaving her dear mother
decades ago, toddler on hip, for a new life overseas. An unspoken goodbye that shimmered like silk between them. Sorrow distorted her face, the words strangled in her throat: Lao Lao, your grandma, had shuffled from room to room, stunned into silence, the roar of this impending
distance already drowning out my pleas for her to somehow understand. I was leaving her, perhaps forever. Her fingers had trembled as she gifted me a parcel containing two homemade qipao dresses and three tiny outfits for you –
a toddler who would grow up without ever knowing her grandma.
I watched my mom as she sat in her kitchen, shoulders slumped.
I could see how this loss broke something in her. Still, I made
no move to embrace her. Apathy bloomed in my folded arms
and shifty eyes, a feeble attempt to shield myself
from her palpable pain. Didn’t realize that I would be steeped in it
a mere few months later. Didn’t quite know then how to measure the distance between these wounded souls spinning out, unsure
of which direction was ‘home’ and unable to turn back.
In this tale of three mothers, I now see the steadfast thread
of Your handiwork stitching together burdened hearts
spanning seas, lands, the spaces between. It was Your grace
that carried us — and only with You, did we each learn surrender.
Jul 14, 2025
Jul 14, 2025 at 9:58 PM UTC
I slip from the low thrum of this dream-
state on the first dawn of a new year, ponder
my dead father's visit: his robust body a vision
of health once more, not a glimmer of glioblastoma
poised to invade his cells, to proliferate
loss in the strange sanctuary of his mind.
Time exists in the in-between, and I feel it
threaten to slip away even as he solemnly coos,
cradles a crying infant I know to be mine; could it
possibly be a sign that this one will finally be
viable? Perhaps this time it could stay, not eye the exit,
entirely too eager to be carried away with the receding tide
I know so well. For once, I will myself to feel it all
fully, a foreign freedom gently nudging me to revel
in each flicker of hope before the unfolding of another
sterile, somber era. I resolve not to think of its high walls
that cloister at first, then eagerly enfold me in a cold,
colorless cocoon. I pause in lemony light as my eyes
adjust to the still shadow of an eclipsed unknowing, at last
allowing the unfamiliar dew of peace to settle upon me
Jul 14, 2025
Jul 14, 2025 at 9:56 PM UTC